


Before the Sunrise

by tiptoe39



Category: Supernatural
Genre: First Time, M/M, Schmoop
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-09-11
Updated: 2011-09-11
Packaged: 2017-10-26 20:59:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,245
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/287838
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tiptoe39/pseuds/tiptoe39
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean and Cas need to get warm and dry.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Before the Sunrise

**Author's Note:**

> A mostly unauthorized sequel to [](http://zatnikatel.livejournal.com/profile)[**zatnikatel**](http://zatnikatel.livejournal.com/)'s fic [Nightswimming](http://zatnikatel.livejournal.com/60091.html). Read it first. Beta’d by the flawless [](http://stellamaris99.livejournal.com/profile)[**stellamaris99**](http://stellamaris99.livejournal.com/).

_What now?_

Dean looks up. The rain beats down, heavy and stinging, on his eyelids, making him squint. He wipes his face with the soaked back of his sleeve, but it does no good. He's freezing. Freezing and trembling, the rainwater running over his lips and still tasting like Cas, like the chapped soft brush of his lips, a moment captured in his memory like a butterfly under glass. He wants to pin its wings down, examine it closer, but that's impossible. Not with the rain beating down its cold drum roll against the water.

"We get inside, I guess," he manages to say, and he doesn't recognize his own voice.

Sopping, weighty clothes struggle against Dean's motion as he lifts himself out of the lake and manages to crawl his way onto land. Castiel follows, and Dean counts himself lucky Castiel isn't quite devious enough to try to get revenge on him for being pulled into the drink. But Castiel has always been simple like that, simple like that kiss was simple, just liquid, motion on motion, lips on lips, with the water everywhere to guide them together.

Not so this bulky grabbing and pulling, the wringing out of sopping clothes, the laborious trudge toward the car just to get out of the rain. The dirt beneath their feet runs to mud, rivers flowing in the crevices of soil. Each foothold feels to Dean like he's stepping in a sinkhole. He thinks the earth might swallow him up. It's kind of surprising that they make it to the car as quickly as they do.

Upholstery, a nagging voice in his mind says. He should be worrying about the upholstery, because they're in his car and they're soaked. But he can hear Castiel's teeth chattering, and everything else is muffled, like they're in a fishbowl. He tries to speak, tries to reassure Castiel that they'll be home soon and they can get warm, but the minute he looks over Castiel's eyes catch his, knowing, and Dean can't speak at all.

The car rumbles happily beneath them. Dean gets the feeling she knows something, too, but she's not telling.

They're silent across the gravel of the motel driveway, fat plops of rain chasing them all the way to the door, and they don't look at each other as they shake off the worst of it just inside the threshold. Castiel makes for the bathroom, and Dean doesn't even make it that far. He's peeling off jacket and shirt as he goes, shivers wracking him with each exposure of damp skin to the air. Just for fun he twists his T-shirt tight and wrings it out, watching a puddle darken the cheap carpeting. It's gratifying in a way he can't define.

Shuffling noises next to him, bare feet on the floor inching up to the wet spot, and Dean looks up. Castiel's shed his clothes, and he's found a threadbare bathrobe in the closet, white terry cloth against his skin rough and pulling up spots of red irritation where it rubs him. Castiel's cheeks are flushed, and he's rubbing a towel against his wet head in anemic strokes, not drying much, just moving automatically. His eyes, bright black holes with a rim of blue, bore into Dean's.

There's a ringing in Dean's ears that reminds him of the first time Castiel ever tried to speak to him. He can't hear a thing but that tone and the steady pulse of his own heartbeat layering beneath it. He tries to speak again, to tell Cas he's never gonna get his hair dry at that rate, but God knows if the words come out, because that damn noise is deafening him. Screw it. He moves forward and takes the towel in his own hands.

Castiel's hair flies every which way beneath the rough scrubbing. Dean's grinning a bit, watching strands of black, grown a little too long through lack of care and vanity, flop about, sticking to the towel or plastering themselves to Castiel's forehead. He reaches down with an index finger to rearrange a few flyaway ends. Castiel's skin against his fingertip is still cold, still clammy from exposure. Dean takes in a breath and meets Castiel's eyes, concerned.

It stops being about coldness in an instant. Now it's about closeness, and the echo of the kiss leaps into Dean's mind, like a dream he's just remembered after trying to recall it for hours. It's ready and immediate, but it threatens to slip away again any minute, and if Dean doesn't do something he'll lose it again. His hands are still moving on the towel, still sopping up the dampness from Castiel's hair, as he leans forward. His face hovers near Castiel's and he can feel heat brimming beneath the pale skin.

"Dean," Castiel says, his lips parting. Dean doesn't let them close again.

If the last kiss wasn't erotic, this one makes up for it and then some. Castiel's tongue has closed around the "n" in Dean's name, and Dean pries it loose again, sliding his own tongue under it and pressing up. It jars another sound from Castiel's mouth, this one without a name. The sound vibrates into Dean's lips and resonates under his skin.

He'd forgotten he had no shirt on, that they were topless but for the loose lines of the bathrobe hanging from Castiel’s shoulders. Now their chests bump lightly together and it's not nearly enough; Dean makes a low, rough noise and grabs Castiel by the waist, hauling him in. That leaves one hand still on the towel, and it falls limp to the floor behind Castiel as Dean takes a fistful of black, tousled hair instead. Castiel sucks in air, hissing around Dean's lower lip. Dean tries to suck it back. They tussle over the lungful of air until their lips break with a sudden pop.

"Dean."

Dean's thumbs have inexplicably made their way to Castiel's jaw. They trace forward slowly, heading toward a meeting point just below his mouth. "Hmm?"

Castiel's eyes lower, look over his body. "You're still cold."

"I am not." But a shiver tickles his spine, makes him jump.

Hands slide beneath the waistline of his jeans. "You should take these off."

"Hold on, Cas, I don't--" But Castiel is on his knees, easing down Dean's zipper, pulling the wet jeans down over him. The boxers, just as soaked, go with them. "Cas, not on the first date, dude--"

Bright eyes fix on him. "You'll get sick."

Dean sinks to the bed in silent acquiescence and watches Castiel continue to peel off his jeans and socks and boots, methodically, like a surgeon cutting into skin. Castiel's eyes aren't on him, they're on the towel Dean dropped a moment ago, and a second later he's snatched it up and is scrubbing Dean's bare feet with it. The roughness is good, and Dean forgets he's naked, forgets a moment ago he'd been kissing Castiel like crazy. He just groans. His head tips back and he gazes dully at the ceiling.

"We should get in bed."

Castiel's voice cuts through the haze, even though his hands are still going, squeezing through the cloth and easing the tension in Dean's soles, his arches. Dean props himself up and fights through the endorphin rush to speak. "Cas?"

For a moment he thinks he's going to get a lecture. Castiel meets his eyes and scowls. His hands stop, and the towel drapes limply over Dean's big toe. It's damp enough now that it makes his foot cold; Dean wiggles it off, then tries to curl his feet beneath the edge of the blanket. Fuck, that's right, he's naked, and the room is cold. "Yeah," he says after another minute. "Bed's good."

He edges backward and wraps the blanket around his body, a temporary shell, then pulls back the sheets and settles inside. His body's still damp against the cotton, but this is warm, a safe place, and Dean feels like all the weight of soggy clothes and hunts and kisses is finally lifting. He's floating -- comfortable, warmer, and easing toward sleep.

When Castiel eases in beside him, it’s natural. Any burst of alarm that might have sounded in his senses has been dulled by warmth and time, and of course he knew it was going to happen – Castiel had said _we,_ not _you._ Dean thinks he might have expected Castiel to keep wearing the bathrobe, though, and he’s not. No matter. Castiel’s body is warmer now, the touch of his skin tingles, and Dean can feel the heat burn down to his toes when they clasp together. They’re melding like water, they find each other like the rain found the lake, and now there’s no telling where the lines are between them.

Dean’s palm is flat against the small of Castiel’s back. Castiel’s fingers curl around Dean’s bicep. Soft mouths breathe in the same air. A gasp, an exhalation in a low male voice. It all happens beneath the cover of white sheets. Secret, simple, gentle warmth slowly rising to heat.

A sweep of Dean’s palm downward over the curve of Castiel’s rear and Dean’s got a thigh rising to cross his waist. He presses in with his hip and can feel Cas hard against him, arching forward. Castiel’s toes are cold imprints on his thigh, and Dean rocks backward, pulling Castiel on top of him, wedging those toes between his legs and the bed. Now there’s power behind what they’re doing, muscle, and Dean’s starting to get hot all over. He presses up, his erection slotting into the hot recess between Castiel’s spread thighs and _oh my God..._

“Cas.” The sound flies from his mouth and catches between Castiel’s lips, pushed back down onto him. Hot kisses brand his mouth, drop onto him as forcefully as the rain. “Oh, God, Cas, I don’t--”

Castiel smiles. Dean can feel the smile against his lips.

Oh, god. He’s screwed. Castiel planned this, he planned all of this, Castiel has known, all this time, he’s wanted, he’s led him here.

The thoughts come in a jumble but they’re buried by kisses, buried by Castiel’s mouth furious on his. Dean doesn’t have room to think anymore. He holds on and closes his eyes and feels Castiel battering down on him like a storm, he’s more drenched in Castiel’s body than he ever was in lakewater or rainwater. He’s breathing in great gulps of air as Castiel moves on him, moves down him, hands tracking big warm prints across his chest and mouth on his sternum heading down to his stomach. Dean can’t control the open-shut gasping of his mouth, the inhalations and the desperate hissing repetition of “Cas, Cas,” over and over, like waves.

The sudden hot gulp of Castiel’s mouth around his cock makes Dean arch up off the bed, a shout tumbling out, the sheets stretching taut beneath him. He fights for control, fights to plaster his hips back down against the mattress, to not choke Castiel with his dick even though it’s all he wants to do. Castiel’s sinful and perfect, sucking obstinately around the head, lips curled in just below the ridge and refusing to go deeper. Dean doesn’t have to look to see the expression on his face. Damn Cas. He always knows more than he’s letting on.

But even having planned it, Castiel’s still tentative, daring only to take Dean’s shaft in his mouth a little at a time, then pulling off to cradle him in his hands. He breathes on Dean, an impossibly soft exhalation, and Dean makes a whimpering noise he should be ashamed of, a noise of pure need untempered by pride. Castiel sweeps over his cock with one hand, two fingers dotting a brief dance over the head, and his lips press a chaste kiss between them. Fingers and mouth pressing, caressing, and Dean bites his lip, head swimming with the specificity of the sensation, how different and distinct they feel on him at the same time. Textures, pressure. Overwhelming one at a time, lethal together.

He wonders if Castiel has practiced on himself in preparation for this. He imagines Castiel trying different grips and strokes, learning what feels good to his own cock, lying in a bed or sitting in an abandoned room, his head tipping back and his breath coming shorter. Perhaps Castiel even thought of Dean when he did it. Perhaps the image beneath the curtain of his eyelids was of Dean, here, in this moment, losing his mind under Castiel's touch. The thought, and the sudden hot warmth as Castiel takes him into his mouth again,sends Dean's blood roaring through his veins, and he lifts his hips off the bed, groaning desperately.

He clutches Castiel's shoulder with one hand, grips his damp hair loosely with the other, and lets himself move a little into the sucks and nibbles of Castiel's lips, the wet sweeping motions of his tongue. He should be doing more, giving back, but Cas is so, _so_ good at this, and he can't think. His balls feel heavy and tight, his thighs tensing rhythmically, and when Castiel hums briefly around his dick he spits out, “Jesus God _Cas!_ ” with an upward jerk of his hips that forces Castiel to open his mouth wider around his shaft. His teeth graze just barely along the sides, and a shudder of exquisite pain rips its way up Dean's spine.

Dean remembers himself, cranes his neck to look down, and mumbles, “Cas, I'm close, I'm really fucking close.”

Castiel answers him with an encouraging hum. He fastens his lips around Dean's cock and sucks hard. Dean's straining on the edge of madness. Everything is a hot, dizzy blur, like a cloud about to burst. He's one lightning strike away.

He gets several. Castiel's moan; the hardness of his cock bumping against Dean's leg; a devilish swipe of tongue and a sudden jostle of fingertips against his sac. All at once, all lighting up his brain with electricity. Dean comes with a whole-body jerk. He shouts, grabs Castiel's hair tighter and pulls, jamming himself deeper into that eager mouth. One push and rush of fluid, another, a third, and he falls flat onto the mattress, bones melting, tension draining away in an infusion of languid bliss.

Castiel crawls up his body, kissing his stomach, his chest. When he flicks his tongue against Dean's nipple, Dean's whole body jumps. He's oversensitive, winded, and he's almost laughing when Castiel's mouth reaches his and lingers there. He can only halfway return the kiss, because none of his muscles are obeying him, least of all his lips.

That's for the best; it feels amazing to have Castiel's tongue licking into his mouth, to lie back and take it. His hand finds the strength to curl around Castiel's hip, and he registers Castiel's erection slowly grinding into his side, Castiel's body moving like a wave, searching for friction and release. That's just not fair, Dean thinks. Not fair to leave him hanging like this.

He drops his lazy smile starts to kiss back, his tongue catching Castiel's in mid-lick and drawing a gasp from him. It doesn't take much more energy than that to trail his hand from hipbone to cock, to press his fingertips against the bulge of his vein and draw his thumb over the head. Castiel's leaking, and when Dean smears the wetness across his velvet-silk skin, Castiel gasps and swallows hard.

“OK?” Dean whispers into his mouth, and laughs when Castiel nods vigorously, flyaway strands of his hair still plastered to his face.

They kiss again, briefly, and then Dean just watches his face, watches him breathe in and out, his chest rising and falling as Dean strokes him. Castiel's eyes are open, fixed on Dean's, and Dean's locked into that gaze. He rolls closer, lifts his other hand to stroke Castiel's jaw, fingers darting to his pink, parted lips. A second later and they're trapped, Castiel sucking hard, teeth scraping mercilessly over the tender pads of Dean's fingertips.

Dean stares in amazement as Castiel's mouth tightens, pulls on his fingertips, a suck- and kiss-flushed rosebud of a mouth. Is this what he couldn't see, was this how Castiel looked earlier, with his mouth around Dean's cock, pulled tight, swollen and greedy? The thought makes his cock twitch again, and he pushes his fingers in deeper, stroking a new bead of pre-come into a line of wetness over Castiel's shaft.

Castiel grunts, swallows around Dean's fingers, and makes desperate, guttural noises as he pumps his hips into Dean's fist. His mouth won't let go, and he sucks ardently. Dean watches open-mouthed as his body erupts into spasms. He shouts, closed-lipped, around Dean's fingers – a loud, throaty “Mmm” – and comes into Dean’s fist, breaking into shudders. His mouth is the last part of him to slacken, and when Dean withdraws his fingers they've been drained of moisture, wrinkled as though he's been in the shower, and flushed with red bite and suck marks. Dean dabs them into the pool of come around Castiel's hips, hypnotized, his mouth dry.

He rolls off the bed and grabs that same white towel, cleans Castiel off gently. Castiel's breathing has slowed by the time he's done, and they're back to silent staring, this time side by side on the bed, tucked under the blanket and sheet, dry and warm instead of cold and wet but still unsteady, unsure.

“Cas?” he says after a minute.

Castiel blinks.

“Your mouth.” Dean searches for the right word. He comes up with “It's awesome.”

“Thank you.” Castiel doesn't smile.

Dean feels like an idiot. “Uh. I didn't mean...”

“Dean.” Castiel's hand touches his briefly, lightly. “We don't have to talk.”

“We don't?”

The barest sliver of a smile emerges. “No. I'm content.”

“Oh.” Dean tries to relax, to let the silence settle. He even tries to close his eyes, to put aside the planes of Castiel's body, the inviting pink warmth of his mouth, to let all that be for a bit. It's impossible. His eyes open. “Cas?”

Castiel's eyes haven't left his face. “Yes?”

“What now?”

It's a familiar question. Dean realizes as soon as he hears it, and Castiel's smile widens. It might be the biggest smile Dean's ever seen on his face. It looks good on him, but it makes Dean's heart ache strangely.

“Now we sleep.” Castiel's eyes dance. “I guess,” he adds, a crude ape of Dean's voice from earlier. Cas' idea of a joke. Dean actually finds it kind of funny.

“Oh. Well. Thanks for that,” he says, trying and failing to sound annoyed.

But Castiel is right – they do sleep. Their hands barely touch as they drift off, comfortable, listening to the hushing of the rain in the night outside the window. In the morning, though, the rain has stopped and their bodies have found each other again. Dean wakes up at six a.m. with Castiel curled into the circle of his arms, his body warm with sleep, the stubble on his jaw a hair darker than it was before. Dean's every instinct tells him to be alarmed, but he's working on something deeper than instinct, something as primal and natural as sunshine.

He tightens his grip on Castiel's waist and burrows deeper into his pillow. It isn't time to wake up quite yet. Maybe when the clouds part and the room fills with light.

  



End file.
